Sara Wharton’s face lit with a quick tenderness. She put her arm over the child’s bent shoulders, and drew the wet cheek down against her breast. “My dear, if you are sorry, if you know that it is wicked and dreadful, then the worst is over. Don’t wish to die—wish to live, so that you may be good. I know you can be good!” she ended, with a burst of courage in her voice, that struck some answering chord in the poor, half-developed little soul at her side. Nellie looked up.
“Oh, I will be good—if I can; just get out of here! I’m just about sick, anyway; I’ve got such a pain under my left shoulder; and I’m just tired of it—and Mrs. Smith is so cross. But I can’t go home. My aunt’ll jaw at me. Oh, I can’t ever go home!” She whimpered a little, and looked at her pretty finger nails critically.
“I’m sure your aunt will forgive you!” Sara said, impetuous and tender. “Let’s go and ask her to, now.”
“Mrs. Smith won’t let me go, I guess,” Nellie sighed; “I owe her two weeks board.”
“I will pay her.”
“I’ll come to-morrow,” the child demurred.
“Nellie, dear, I want you to come now! Oh, Nellie, won’t you begin this minute to be good?”
“I’m not so very bad,” Nellie protested, “and I can’t come now, truly. I haven’t any sack. I—sold it.” The tears welled up in her soft eyes at the remembrance of her poverty.
“You don’t need a sack. You’ll come in my carriage, and I’ll wrap a rug around you.”
“My!” said Nellie, “is your carriage here? One of the club girls told me it had satin cushions. Is that so, Miss Wharton?”